


The Price of Quills

by Ilthit



Series: Quills [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: 1790s, Crossdressing, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, Sex Work, dubcon-ish, prostitute!Segundus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24733810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: While working on his book in London in 1796, Mr Segundus finds himself in sudden and urgent need of money. His boarding-house neighbour has a suggestion.
Relationships: Henry Lascelles/John Segundus
Series: Quills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820632
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Trope Bingo: Round Fourteen





	The Price of Quills

There came a time in the year 1796, while Mr Segundus was in London collecting material for a work on magic that he believed might chart his course for the future, when his small income and the kindness of his landlady no longer sufficed to keep him housed and fed. She, too, had the pressure of debtors and duties, not to mention her many dependents, and the prices at which she had given him his lodgings were now far below the usual recompense made for similar accommodations elsewhere in Moorfields. She informed him of all of this with such a show of sorrow that Mr Segundus (though aware that stratagems such as tears could well be calculated) could not blame her for her decision to raise his rent. 

Without rooms, Mr Segundus would lose what little he made from his penmanship, not to mention the progress he had done on his book, for writing required a private space in which to engage in it. Without lodgings, indeed, where was he to go? Friends might house him—but friends, too, had their own lives and their own concerns, and it did not suit Mr Segundus well to rely solely upon charity. That was to say, it would not be his first choice, though he had done so before and no doubt would again. Necessity did not often make room for scruples. 

In short, Mr Segundus found himself suddenly in urgent need of money. 

“It is no use confessing this to you,” he said apologetically to his fellow lodger at Mrs M—’s, Mr Ernestine, as they walked companionably down from the park, back towards their boarding-house. Segundus had hoped a stroll would help him to order his thoughts and consider his options, but had come up with no solution by the time he had encountered his neighbour. Mr Ernestine, a young, gay fellow with a jolly piggish countenance and a small income from his elder brother, had offered a ready ear to Segundus’s troubles. “Forgive me for assuming so, but I suspect your rent is to be raised as well.”

“Indeed!” Ernestine laughed. “And I already spent what my brother sent in before the quarter was out. But one can always make some money here and there. And with a face like yours—well! You would certainly do better than I.”

Mr Segundus failed to see what his face had to do with it, and so Mr Ernestine clarified his meaning, with many gestures and what one might consider unnecessary detail. 

-

“It is no hardship at all,” purred Mr Ernestine as he arranged the curls of Segundus’s wig to fall around his face. “We keep the gentlemen happy, they keep drinking, and at the end of the day everyone gets what they wanted.” 

They inspected his work in the cracked mirror on the wall of the molly-house’s busy upstairs lounge, which served as a backroom and a preparation area for those men who wished to dress up safely within the confines of these closely guarded walls. It was a loud, colourful, and cramped space full of bright cottons and feathers, and Segundus wished very much he were back in his own rooms instead. “Very pretty,” Ernestine muttered and gave the curls another fluffing. His own wig was dyed red and arranged in a dramatic, tall style topped by a miniature ship in sail. 

Segundus was less pleased than his friend. The curls hid the sharp contours of his cheekbones and jawline. With his face made up pale and his lips red, it created, if not the illusion of femininity, surely a suggestion there-of. The bodice which pushed his meager flesh in and up had still not been sufficient to produce anything resembling a chest but that, Mr Ernestine assured him, was nothing to worry about. The gentlemen who frequented Peggy Longshanks’ fine establishment did not expect to encounter breasts. 

Mr Segundus was no blushing virgin (though once again, Mr Ernestine assured him, the impression was more likely to charm than bring censure) and yet he could not quite believe he had been persuaded into whoring, however temporary the arrangement, or desperate his situation. But Mr Ernestine had promised him over and over that everything would go swimmingly, that he would be unlikely to be asked to entertain more than one or two fellows at most, the clientele was genteel and clean, and in any case one could simply take it between the thighs and the inebriated fool would be as satisfied by that as by any amount of vicious buggery. A jolly time would be had by all, and they would go home with their pockets jingling.

“She’s lovely,” said a blonde fellow with a rakish smile, who was dressed as a faun and bedecked in faux, fabric ivy. He dropped a kiss on the top of Segundus’s head and was swatted away by Mr Ernestine, who cursed very wickedly at him for ruining his work. 

Mr Segundus took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. It would only be for one night, perhaps two if all went well, and he might be able to keep himself housed and writing long enough to find an alternate situation. He threw back the glass of port-wine Mr Ernestine placed in his hand and let its warmth in his throat do the work of any courage he may lack. 

-

Mr Lascelles observed the main room of the Red Billy with his customary displeasure. He had frequented houses of ill repute, as any gentleman would have, in his younger days and especially during his stint at Oxford, but at nearly thirty he found them noisy, ill-kept, often filthy, and offering pleasures that had long since lost their attraction. Why settle for some sloppy tart when the real challenge and reward was in winning a chaste lady to his bed? Paid flattery and pretended desire rang hollow; it now offended his vanity.

This brothel, though perhaps cleaner than most, was as cheap and lurid as any other, with its red and yellow wallpaper and divans draped over with worn velvets in even more offensive colour combinations. His eye longed for the orderliness of his own house, which he had just recently bought on Bruton-street and furnished in the latest styles. He said nothing, however, as the gentleman who accompanied him was already pink in the nose and his speech was getting louder every moment. 

He and Lord Condon had been schoolboys together, and ever since those halcyon days Lascelles had harboured an intense dislike for Condon. The reasons for this had begun with sharpened pen-nubs and had grown over years of small irritations and greater offenses. It was Lascelles’s intention to see the young lord as ruined as only London could make a man, and leaving him in a string of whorehouses sloshing with port had seemed like a good start. 

“I like that one. She’s—” his lordship paused to burp, “—he’s saucy.” Lascelles sipped his glass of middling wine and glanced in the direction indicated. A stocky, short molly with a miniature ship teetering on top of his red wig was sashaying down the staircase, skirts held high enough to flash stockinged calves. He had no beauty to speak of and a face made up like a Venetian actress, but also in the Venetian style, he had dipped his neckline down below his rouged nipples. Lascelles supposed that was what passed for ‘saucy’ for Condon, who had not yet had his Grand Tour—had, indeed, as far as Lascelles knew, never yet left England.

“J’arrive!” declared the tart with a flourish of a red feather fan that clashed with his wig. Another prostitute already on the floor gave him a sarcastic ‘huzzah’, to a smattering of laughter. Lascelles’s eye was next caught by the willowy molly stepping carefully behind the apparition, his white wig and pale blue silks almost sophisticated by comparison, despite the excess of blush covering half his face. 

Lascelles sat back and watched as Condon got unsteadily on his feet and stumbled on his knees before the newcomers, bursting into a bawdy serenade as the red-wigged fellow hid behind his fan and tittered. The blue-silked one, the one spot in the room one could lay one’s eye without fear of making it bleed, made his timid way past them into the hall, joined his hands before him, and looked around nervously. 

Oh, it was terrible, of course, but Lascelles knew he was not the only man in the room whose interest that piqued. A little hesitation, a little resistance, and wide dark eyes looking up at one with trust—all these things could work like an aphrodisiac, whether they were genuine reactions or a skilled performance. Lascelles rather fancied it was the former. He found himself getting up on his feet. 

-

John Segundus rubbed his hands together nervously, hoping he had powder for sweaty hands. Next to the opulence of Mr Ernestine, he felt rather pale and uninteresting. Certainly nobody was about to drunkenly serenade him. Just as it occurred to him that this might save his evening, two gentlemen stood at the same time and headed directly for him. 

One was a swarthy, short fellow whose eyes were already cloudy with drink, and though his coat was well-cut and clearly expensive, his tie was loose and stained with beer and some darker liquid. The other was a tall, aristocratic-looking fellow in impeccably clean clothes and an aggressively sober look about him. The prospect of being courted by either made Segundus’s heart beat faster, and not in pleasant anticipation. He closed his mouth tightly and determined not to step back. Courage—and charm, that was the thing to focus on. He attempted a smile and cocked his head in a way Mr Ernestine had told him was ‘charmingly feminine’. 

The two men noticed one another, and eyed each other with challenge, nearly bumping shoulders. The tall one swung aside at the last moment and Segundus thought the matter decided, but then a walking-stick appeared between the two. The tall one had blocked the short one’s approach with it, and was pressing into his chest. 

A look passed between the men, a wordless challenge and wordless answer. The short one shot Segundus a dirty look, but backed away, turning towards the bar. The tall one turned to Segundus with a self-satisfied look and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

“Certainly,” said Segundus, with only the slightest tremble in his voice, and took the man’s arm. It took him two tries to remember just how a lady hooked her arm around a gentleman’s. 

He found himself unable to look the man in the eye as he was led to one of the divans. His heart had not yet slowed down. It was far too obvious that he had no idea what he was doing. “I apologize,” he said as he sat, falling on his seat rather gracelessly. “I am not… That is to say… I do not quite know how these things go.”

“Evidently not,” the tall gentleman said, cool amusement in his tone. He sat next to Segundus on the divan, crossing his ankles. “Allow me to elucidate. If our conversation goes well, I shall pay the proprietor a given sum, and we will wait for a private room to be made available.” He gestured at the shadows, where some couples were already undulating together. “A preference of mine. You will be informed of what services are expected of you, and you will perform them; though I may request others, which will be billed separately. It is all very mercantile, mechanical, and dull, rather like ordering a new set of quills.”

Mr Segundus, who had pinched pennies and cut corners to keep himself in quills, thought this rather a poor comparison. He was at a loss for words. Had the man picked him only to make fun of him? If so, he would have done better to leave him to the short gentleman. “Sir.” Glancing up, he saw the man’s eyes darkening, and expression he could not quite read. 

“The trouble is, I haven’t quite decided on which quills to order, so to speak. So it is my intention—with your permission—to pay for the lot, and figure it out as we go along. Your name?”

The demand for his name came so quickly after the shock of being so summarily bought that Mr Segundus had not yet had time to recover, and so gave his Christian name instead of the one Mr Ernestine had spent so much time inventing for him. The gentleman laughed, lifted Segundus’s nerveless hand in his own, and kissed his rough knuckles before standing and going in search of Peggy Longshanks. 

This was not going at all as he had expected. The gentleman was not drunk, nor was he jolly. There was a mocking coolness in his manner that, despite his outward cleanliness and politeness, sent a shiver down Segundus’s spine. 

What had he gotten himself into? 

Perhaps if the gentleman would not consent to be inebriated, Segundus could be. He grabbed a half-emptied pint of gin off a nearby side-table and downed it for more encouragement before his gentleman came back for him and held out his hand. They had secured a room. 

-

John Segundus. An Italian name. It explained the dark eyes and hair, Lascelles supposed; and Italians were known for their beauty. Not that John was the greatest of beauties. Lascelles judged him merely somewhat pretty, even in these silks. His attraction lay mainly in his manner—and his availability. Lascelles had paid for services he had not even heard of, and some that counted double, and some he suspected may be physically impossible. Still, the thought that he was contractually allowed to put the fellow down on his knees and force him to pleasure him was in itself at least a little tempting. 

Lascelles had told the truth—he had not yet decided how he wished the evening to advance, beyond wanting to get out of that noisy bar-room and to be alone with this blushing and modest tart. He hoped to be amused. And if he wasn’t—if this John acted cheap and brazen—Lascelles would—well, he had not decided what he would do then, either, only he would not be well pleased, and someone would pay for it. The eventual delight of Lord Condon’s ruination was still far away, and so far in the pursuit he had had to endure an unpleasant evening. That needed to be remedied.

The door closed behind them. Lascelles loosened his tie and shrugged off his coat, placing it over the back of a chair so it would not crease. The room was small, with a drafty window, and draped over with more of that garish red, with a pitcher and a wash-basin under the window. At least the bed was made—it must still be early in the evening. Lascelles threw himself on the covers and languished there, crossing his ankles and resting his head on the pillows piled against the bed-end. He took a swig of the small clay bottle of wine he’d grabbed on the way up and patted the bed beside him. 

The prostitute did not hesitate, though he did look deliciously uncomfortable. Lascelles thought he caught a fresh whiff of gin on his breath as he settled awkwardly down besides him, and offered a drink from his bottle. The man grabbed it and took two deep gulps. Lascelles entertained himself with some filthy imaginings while watching his Adam’s apple bob and his lips around the mouth of the bottle, and when John handed the drink back he leaned in to taste it from his mouth. 

Now John did hesitate, and Lascelles could feel his heartbeat thrum against his palm, which had found its way to John’s neck. He merely rested it there, his thumb stroking soothing circles on his jawline, and could not tell if it was only him whom the gesture made think of strangulation. But John opened his lips and kissed him back, lightly, as if exploring the prospect. It was perfectly charming, and Lascelles slid his hand up to the back of the man’s head, skewing his wig. After a moment, he pushed it off entirely and tossed it on the floor. He himself had stopped wearing the horrid, itchy things almost before it had become fashionable to do so. 

“Sir,” said John after a while, when they had rolled over and Lascelles was lazily mouthing at his neck. “We have skipped a step, I fear.”

Lascelles fancied he heard a skip in that voice, a catch of excited breath; and certainly the man’s cheeks must be flushed under that rouge. “Ah?”

“You have not informed me which services I… Well.”

“I did tell you I had not yet decided,” said Lascelles, a mild remonstrance. “For the moment, I require you to lie back and enjoy yourself.”

“I see,” said John, and Lascelles, finding this a suitable response, proceeded. 

\- 

Mr Segundus lay back and fixed his gaze on the roof above. The simple, sturdy, uneven planks provided little distraction from the hands roaming across his body. The constriction of the bodice on his slight frame was not great, and its neckline very low, so as the man lifted Segundus’s arms over his head his mouth gained access to Segundus’s nipples. They were not rouged, but they pinked soon enough under the assault of his mouth. 

Despite his misgivings, Segundus found his body responding to the administrations. He had known what he was walking into. Perhaps if he closed his eyes tightly and imagined himself back in the library with Eugene, pouring over pages of old manuscripts, it might make the experience tolerable. He could almost smell the scent of old leather, the tang of Eugene’s breath after they had shared pleasure in whatever nook of Eugene’s father’s house they could safely hide in. 

But they were not in a library. The client smelled of perfume, his own skin of powder, and the room of dust and sweat. The noise of the bawdy-house had become a hum, broken only by the occasional crash or bout of singing. He shifted his knee to the side as the gentleman moved between his legs and pushed his skirts up. He felt the tickling slide of cotton and silk against his knees, and then his thighs. 

Segundus’s nervousness peaked as the client’s hands followed that slide up his thighs and to his hips, his thumbs sliding up between them. He could not help the squeak that escaped, or the instinctive twitch that brought both his knees up, his shoulders off the mattress. His cock thrummed with involuntary interest, but he only wished now that he had taken Mr Ernestine up on his offer to ‘oil and stretch’ him properly before they went down the stairs. He had rather pinned his hopes on the man being, as Ernestine had promised, drunk and easily led. 

“Hush now,” said the client with a wicked grin, and took Segundus’s mouth again with an open, filthy kiss. His tongue was nimble and soft. “Don’t be afraid,” he urged with that slightly mocking tone, and Segundus had only a moment to relax before he found his face full of silk. 

Hands grabbed his hips and pulled him downwards on the bed, still struggling in the ridiculous skirts. Then he felt that same clever tongue on the end of his cock, and momentarily lost the ability to breathe. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of Eugene, but Eugene had never been this good at this particular act, having been rather toothy and over-eager. Segundus gathered enough of his skirts in his arms to gasp for air, his hips squirming even as the stranger gathered his legs over his own shoulders and bobbed his head down along Segundus’s length with every evidence of pleasure. Segundus was sure he had been at half-mast at most a moment ago, but the slide of tongue along the underside of his cock, and the soft circling motion at the tip, had apparently brought him to full sail in shockingly short time. The gentleman did not only know how to suck cock; he knew how to suck circumcised cock. 

“God in Heaven,” Segundus gasped, pressed his nose back into his gathered skirts and let that clever mouth and hand do its work, sliding him in and out of that wet and warm mouth. 

Segundus had expected to endure—he had not come prepared to enjoy. Of course he had known that not every sensual encounter need be steeped in gentle emotion; it had simply never occurred to him to seek casual company in that way, and something had always made him turn away all offers, rare as they were. Now he found himself surrendering to a connection so entirely unintellectual and devoid of a true meeting of the souls as one could imagine, and the fact of its inconsequentiality itself let something loose inside his psyche. Perhaps one could merely—

Oh, dear God. The gentleman’s throat had closed around his cock, his wet tongue pressed tight against the underside. A muffled groan vibrated around him. 

-

Henry Lascelles loved sucking cock. It was just one of those things one had to accept without questioning it too much. He loved it probably as much as he loved diving between a lady’s open legs, and with the skirts and the hard edge of the bodice stopping his fingers as they roamed upwards on John’s hips, it was almost like a taste of both worlds at once. He really ought to think of finding a suitably subservient gentleman lover again. He had been rather preoccupied with wives of late. 

However, the most important thing, and the most gratifying thing, was in the proof of his success. John Segundus was butter in his hands. He licked up the length of the cock like the proverbial cat might lap at his cream, and came up for air, wiping his mouth on the back of his gloved hand. 

John had been pretty, but Lascelles might be persuaded to admit he was edging towards beautiful now, with his face flushed and his breathing uneven, his wide eyes murky as he stared up at Lascelles, and his chest half out of its bodice. There was no sign of modest hesitation now. Lascelles wanted to rip his clothes apart, flip him around and fuck him until he cried. 

Simple pleasures. It was often about the quality rather than the quantity—or the acrobatics. (He still did not quite believe that activity number seventeen on Peggy Longshanks’s list was plausible, let alone pleasurable.)

He was surprised when John surged up and caught him in a kiss instead. They rolled, and somehow Lascelles found himself with his back against the mattress, engulfed in skirts, John grinding his bare hips against Lascelles’s breeches. There was some satisfaction, also, in finding a man desperately grappling for his buttons, his hands trembling and unsteady, but he swatted John’s hands away lazily and did the work himself, releasing his member into his own hands.

“I didn’t,” John stammered out. “I haven’t, that is, I don’t know if—”

Lascelles rolled his eyes. “Take care of it, then.” He sat back up and pushed John off himself. He was too dressed for this messy business, in any case. Far be it from Henry Lascelles to soil his linen on some tart. He took the few steps to his coat and fished out a bottle of perfumed oil from an inside pocket, tossing it to the prostitute. John fell face-first into the mattress and opened his legs, trembling as his hands and the bottle disappeared under his skirts. 

Lascelles undressed, then leaned on the windowsill and finished the bottle of wine as he watched. “Ready?”

“I think so,” said John, curled up like a sea-shell on the covers. Lascelles recovered his oil and slipped it back into safe-keeping inside a folded handkerchief, then kneeled on the bed behind his purchase.

-

Only the first thrust inside Segundus was slow, almost gentle. The next picked up speed, and the third jammed into him like laying a claim. He spread his knees a little wider, hoping to avoid the pain of being invaded, but it simply took a few more thrusts for his insides to adjust. The gentleman was not overly large, nor was he himself circumcised, which helped matters; even so, his fingers were pressing red welts into Segundus’s meager flesh and the viciousness of his fucking made Segundus’s toes curl. It was when the gentleman reached around to close his hand around Segundus’s cock, on which his saliva was still cooling, that Segundus found himself making small keening noises at every rock of their joined hips. There was oil on those fingers, too, and they slipped slickly and easily along Segundus’s flesh. 

His head swam, and not just with the effects of gin and wine. It seemed like no time at all until the muscles in his thighs tightened, a sure sign of a release to follow, and he allowed it. He was fucked open, humiliated, despoiled (so far as a gentleman could be) and now truly a tart, and he was spending his seed in a splatter across cotton underskirts and worn brothel sheets. 

The client released his member after a few more strokes, but took hold of his hips and continued to fuck him for a few more minutes until he was satisfied. The continued pleasure of this mixed with exhaustion until Segundus felt warmth spread inside him, and both heard as well as felt the cock slide out, warm seed spilling across his buttocks and thighs. He fell on the sheets with a groan as the weight lifted off him. 

He lay thus spent still when he heard the sound of water. He opened one eye to a crack to see the gentleman at the wash basin, washing off any trace of Segundus with methodical precision. He knew then that he did not like this gentleman, and never would. Nonetheless, his body sang like a bird uncaged after years of captivity, ready for more. 

“Better than I expected,” said the gentleman as he re-dressed himself, smoothing down his spotless breeches with his hands. “Although I do believe that in order to survive in your profession, you must learn to be at least a little more involved.” Segundus noted the man had not only a pocket for lubricating oil on the inside of his impeccably fitted coat, but one for a pistol and a money-purse as well. The former made Segundus’s heart miss a beat; the second opened to a promising clinking of coins. His eyes widened as the gentleman dug out a guinea and tossed it on the bed beside him. He raised himself on his elbows to inspect the coin—it seemed genuine, and would cover his rent easily by itself. 

“Th-thank you, sir,” he managed. 

The smile he received in answer was far from pleasant. “I assure you, it was my pleasure.” 

-

“Did he really want number seventeen?” Mr Ernestine demanded the following day. “I heard he paid for the lot. And what about number twenty-three?”

Mr Ernestine had come to Segundus’s door around mid-day, his eyes still somewhat glassy with the after-effects of gin. They had not seen one another since Segundus had left the Red Billy soon after his customer’s departure, despite Peggy’s entreaties. He had been paid his part of the income already and had not promised to return; and had indeed only managed to silence the proprietor when he had agreed to part with a further ten percent of what had been paid. With his guinea, and the plans he already had for his future, he could afford it.

Segundus shook his head. “I have not read the list, so I really cannot—”

“I can recite it from memory.” Ernestine drew breath, but Segundus quickly cut him off. They were standing in the hall, and the walls of the boarding-house were thin. 

“That is hardly necessary. No, it was not in any way remarkable.”

Ernestine let his breath go. “Oh, have it your way. I have my wiles, and you have yours. Will we see you again tomorrow at the Billy?”

Segundus shook his head firmly no. “I do not believe I am as suited to the profession as you believe. Nonetheless, I thank you, sir, for the opportunity. Good day.”

Mr Ernestine had done his peculiar best to help Mr Segundus, and therefore did not truly deserve to have a door closed on his face. Perhaps some of his single client’s manner had rubbed off on Segundus. 

The episode would soon be put behind him. Segundus certainly had no intention of mentioning it to anyone again. Ernestine’s silence could be assumed to be kept in polite society—not that Segundus had much truck with polite society—if only to secure the income from his brother, and impolite society had every reason to hold its piece. Segundus would secure a position somewhere, or perhaps a patronage, and continue to write until he had made his name. His chastity would return to its monotonous impeccability, and he would never see the tall gentleman with the mocking smile again. 

However, he was uncomfortably aware that he himself would know and remember precisely what happened, and he could not quite yet decide if the memory would turn sweet or sour. At present, it was both—and exciting besides, like a secret written on his skin, or like the discovery of a novel fairy-name in a long-forgotten medieval text. 

That reminded him—he needed to order a new set of quills. 

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this before it was beta read, so nitpicky C&C welcome.


End file.
